J. Geissinger - Edge of Oblivion

There was a beat as he processed that. His regard for her stood in exact opposition to his loathing for her brother, who, though highborn, was unGifted. And the kind of coward that had to pick on others to make himself feel bigger. He wondered what it had been like for her, kept like a prized, exotic bird in a cage her entire life, cleaning up her brother’s messes.

“You call your father Dominus?”

“Not to his face.”

He cracked an eye open to gauge her expression. Her shell-pink lips were twisted in a little, secret smile. She caught him looking and her smile deepened. “No one calls him anything to his face, isn’t that right?”

He let his silence be his answer.

She shrugged, a movement that seemed both casual and full of meaning. “I know. You can’t talk to me. No one can talk to me. I don’t blame you, I know what he’s like.”

“ Do you?” he said harshly, before he could think. The minute it left his mouth he bit his lip, cursing himself. Her smile vanished.

“I...actually, no,” she said, very softly, surprising him. “He’s my father, of course I love him, but...” She trailed off, biting her lip. “But over the last few years he’s seemed so...he seems...” She glanced up at him, questioning, and he found himself wondering again if this was some trick to get him to reveal himself.

“He is as he has always been to me,” he said coolly.

Her expression soured. She cinched one of the sutures tight, and he sucked in a breath, surprised—it hurt .

“I’m going to tell you a little secret, Demetrius,” she said through stiff lips, looking askance at him through her lashes as she continued to sew up his arm. “You can trust me. I can’t make you believe that, of course, but—” She sat up a little straighter. “Wait, no, I can!” She sounded excited. “If I tell you something that no one else knows, something that would get me in trouble— serious trouble —if it’s found out, will you trust me?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Whatever you’re about to say— don’t .”

She leaned in, so close she could have kissed him, so close he saw every detail of her poreless skin, the line of her dark lashes, the perfect Cupid’s bow of her upper lip—

“I’m not a virgin,” she whispered, staring deep into his eyes.

He suddenly felt as if he were conducting fire through his veins. Hearing that word on her lips — virgin —was like an alcoholic hearing the words happy hour . His mouth literally watered.

Then his rational mind kicked in: Was she toying with him?

“I’m not in the mood for games, little girl,” he growled low in his throat.

At that, her brows lifted. “Little girl?” She smiled again, a woman’s smile, knowing and mysterious. “I’m twenty-three, only eight years younger than you.” Her voice dropped an octave.

“And you’re not looking at me like you think I’m a little girl, Demetrius.”

Face flaming, he sat up abruptly, the last of his patience shredded. “What is this?” he hissed.

“This is me being honest with you,” she said, unperturbed, surprising him again. This time because she wasn’t afraid of him. Everyone was afraid of him. “I doubt you get much of that, so you might be unfamiliar with it, but, quite frankly, I think you could use a little more honesty in your life.”

“You do realize just talking to me like this could get me killed .” Anger threaded through his voice, though he was careful to keep it low so the others didn’t hear.

“And me?” She was defiant under his fierce gaze. Unblinking. “You don’t think there’s any danger for me?”

“You’re the King’s daughter,” he snapped, livid now. “You’ll be given a slap on the hand. I’ll have mine cut off .”

Inexplicably, her gaze dropped to his lips. “No, you won’t.”

He stared at her, waiting.

She met his gaze again and softly said, “I would never let him hurt you. Seeing you is the only thing I have to look forward to around here.”

His heart dissolved to his toes.

“Stop this,” he said through gritted teeth.

She went on calmly as though he hadn’t spoken. “I was seventeen. It was one of the Legiones .

Varro was his name. He was twenty. It was after the Christmas Purgare . He was killed a week later in a street fight; they said he was drinking—” D suddenly realized what she was talking about. “Jesus!” “—which made sense because he liked to drink. He was a troublemaker—” He seized her wrists. “Stop!” he hissed close to her face.

“—and I was probably attracted to that because I’ve always had to be such a perfect little princess, so sheltered and doted over even though I wasn’t born a boy, the eldest—” He jerked from the bed and planted his boots on the ground, towering over her, shocked at what was coming out of her mouth, helpless to stop it. “Please—”

“—even though I killed my mother coming out when I was born—”

“Eliana!” he begged.

“—I was still put on a pedestal and given every privilege, but if it was ever known that I’d given away my virginity to someone outside my own caste I’d probably be floating down the Tiber on the next Purgare with all those other unfortunates who didn’t make the Transition.”

He couldn’t breathe. He stared down at her, frozen.

“So now you know something about me.” She was breathing a little too hard, her head tipped back, her eyes glittering dark. “Now you know a secret that could get me killed. And don’t fool yourself, Demetrius. He would kill me. I’m his favorite, I’m his prize, but there is nothing more important to him than honor. Not even me. I may not know much about him, but that I know to the marrow of my bones.”

With a fluid turn of her wrists, she released herself from his grasp, stood, and stepped back.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her simple black dress, ran a shaking hand through her hair.

Then she pulled her shoulders back and jerked a thumb at the cot. “Lie down. I’m not finished with that arm.”

Dazed, speechless, he did as he was told. He felt as if he’d just been run over by a truck.

The sting of the needle again, the pull of thread. “So,” she said, curtly, after a long silence. “Do we understand one another?”

He sensed diminutive life watching them from the carved rock ceiling far above, a spider crouched in shadow, spinning her web. He felt real surprise; no insects lived in the catacombs and no animals ever ventured near, save the feral cats. They all knew what lived in the perpetual darkness here, they all fled. Except for that sole, intrepid arachnid above, tenacious as the feline before him.

“You’d make a great general, you know that?” he finally said, grudgingly admiring.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

His internal compass began to slowly adjust, magnetically drawn to her as if the earth had rotated on its axis and she was—suddenly, absolutely—true north. He was a thinker, an analyzer, an over analyzer, as cold and calculated as a computer, but the proximity of Eliana crashed his motherboard and caused all his circuits to short.

Danger! a distant alarm screamed, flashing red. Danger! Abort!

D cleared his throat. “I remember him.”

Eliana’s fingers, deft and warm, froze on his arm.

“Varro. He was strong. Brave. Reckless, but brave.”

A shadow crossed her face. Sorrow? he wondered. Regret? Did she miss him? The thought made him simmer with jealousy and brought out his ruthless side. “I would’ve thought you’d choose someone a little prettier, though,” he snapped. “He was no Constantine, that’s for sure.”